


Bespoke Suit Chivalry

by obfuscatress



Category: Bridget Jones's Baby, Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: 5+1, Alternate Universe - Twins, Fluff, Gen, the one where Kingsman adopts harry Hart's entire family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8586970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: Five times the Kingsmen were her knights in shining armour and the one time Bridget Jones repayed the favour.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this a while ago and wasn't really happy with it. However, after editing this on a train journey that ended in someone being run over by said train, I couldn't really stand looking at it anymore, and it'll just have to make do.

**1.**

It begins with a neatly wrapped box: moss green, lined paper with an enormous, cream coloured bow and a Harrods sticker tacked onto the top. Holding it in the parlour, Bridget’s at a bit of a loss. She is certain hasn’t ordered anything.

“Mark,” she calls as she takes the package to the living room.

He appears from his office, the new one moved to the ground floor to give a modicum of quietude when William insists on displaying his full lung capacity. A screaming infant and serious calls between lawyers simply don’t mix, though Mark seems to be much fonder of the former than the latter. 

“What’s that?” he asks.

“That’s what I was going to ask you. You haven’t bought it?” Mark shakes his head and she knows the look of concern forming on his face. “It’s not heavy enough to be a bomb,” Bridget says.

“You’re not exactly an authority on the subject, Bridget,” he says, though his first instinct isn’t to bolt out of the room or tell her to back away either, but flip over the tag on top.  _ To William, Mark & Bridget. Congratulations on the baby. Best wishes, Harry & Co. at Kingsman, London. _ “However, seeing as it is from my brother, you’re probably right.”

Bridget lets out a surprised ‘oh’. She’s only met Harry once, and much to her misfortune she’d been in bed that time, half delirious post-labour, tattered gown not yet changed and her hair in a right state. It ought to be a crime Mark Darcy has an even better put together brother to embarrass herself in front of, but one who sends them gift boxes from Harrods no less? It’s borderline blasphemy.

“Are you going to open it then?” Mark asks, disappearing into his office again.

“Right.”

It looks like the sort of present you aren’t allowed to tear the paper off, so Bridget is forced to peel at the strips of tape instead and undo the knot on the bow with inhuman patience. Inside, she finds a black box with a large, yellow, sideways K in a circle and within that box sits an innocent looking teddy beside a monitor. The bear is a classic Harrods piece, though the eyes aren’t the black buttons she’s expecting.

“Mark!” Bridget storms into his office, holding the stuffed toy out to him. “Why are your brother and his workplace sending us some sort of... custom made teddy bear monitor thingy? I thought these were helicopter parent legend.” 

Mark gives the toy an even tempered accusatory look before he sighs, “It’s a sign that I rather never expected to receive. It seems you and William have been adopted into some bizarre extension of an urban family company, Kingsman, has established as an organisation.”

“That’s not a reason for a tailor’s shop-”

“It’s not exactly a tailor,” Mark interrupts. “It’s much larger than that in reality.”

“Well, I still don’t understand what this is for,” Bridget insists, “Espionage for babies?”

“Maybe we ought to have a talk about this. You might want to sit down.”

The next week, they receive two golden medals in the mail with a note signed - _ M _ .

  
  


**2.**

The M turns out to stand for Merlin, whom Bridget meets when she takes William to the shop on Savile Row one day to thank Harry in person for William’s present. Except, Harry isn’t there and maneuvering the stairs with a pram is a nightmare she doesn’t want to repeat just when she’s made it inside. “Do you know when he’s coming back?”

“Not for a few days, ma’am, but someone will be down to see you in a minute,” the shop attendant tells her and Bridget bides her time looking at the rows of neatly rolled ties and glimmering cufflinks. Maybe she ought to get Mark something like this for Christmas.

“Bridget Jones,” someone says more than asks, startling Bridget with his deep voice and the brogue. “I’m Merlin. Pleased to meet you.” He has a striking face, all pointed angles and hollows with a pair of smart glasses, though strangely enough he’s dressed more like an upscale librarian. “Shall we go upstairs. I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

At her bemused look, he adds, “You can leave the pram here for convenience’s sake,” and points a hand to the staircase.

He leaves her an hour later with an offer of a helping hand in getting the pram out of the shop and a set of prototype GPS trackers implemented in three pacifiers. “Harmless research and easy protection,” he tells her with a smile and taps William on the nose.

Merlin isn’t entirely sure about the harmless part, when, four days later, he nearly has a heart attack whilst on the comms with Eggsy. One of the many windows he has open catches his eye and he nearly drops his tea, blurting, “What the fuck is that baby doing in the Thames?”

“What baby?” Eggsy asks confused. In the background Merlin can hear him reloading the magazine of his semi-automatic.

“Harry’s nephew. I put a tracker in his pacifier.”

“Oh, he’s probably just flung his dummy down the toilet then. Daisy used to do that  _ all _ the time,” Eggsy says fondly. Next thing he’s shooting again and Merlin sighs because his poor heart is never going to catch a break at this rate.

  
  
  


**3.**

At times Bridget Jones’ attraction to chaos is truly remarkable. She’s had her fair share of drunken nights out: tripping on the pavement, trying to find her keys in her purse, her friends erupting in laughter at her flailing. She’s run after Mark Darcy in bloody tiger striped knickers, a cardigan, and trainers on New Year’s Eve a decade ago, all without realising she’s left her keys at home, but this is new even for her. She’s actually managed to lock herself out of the house barefoot with William.

“Bollocks!” she curses and hops around on the landing, bouncing William on one arm and clutching the newspaper in the other. “Oh, Mummy’s done a trick now, Will.”

William whimpers, clearly confused as to why he’s out in a body. He almost looks offended at being touched by cold air and Bridget laughs teary eyed as she tries to bundle him into her cardigan. The keys and her phone are both inside and the street lies deserted at this time of the morning. Right now Bridget would even face the humiliation of asking one of the judgy mums on her street for help, if it meant she’d get William indoors and into something warmer, but there’s no one in sight.

“I’m not sure how we’re getting out of this one, darling, or whether I’ll have feet by the time we do.” She glances down at her bright red feet tingling and prickling on the doormat. At least William’s fists are warm against her neck.

“Ms Jones?” comes a voice from the bottom of the steps. Bridget looks up to a see a young woman in a pencil skirt and a sharp coat buttoned up over her figure. “Merlin sent me,” she clarifies and smiles, cocking her head to one side, “I may be of assistance with your current situation.” She directs a pointed look at Bridget’s bare, now numbing feet.

“You don’t happen to have a spare key, do you?” she asks half jokingly, half desperate.

“No, but I’m an expert at picking locks.” The woman produces a small box from her coat pocket, cracking it open to reveal a variety of delicate tools. “If I may.”

Bridget considers her for a moment. She reminds her a lot of Rebecca: helpful in a way that’s borderline intimidating and competent beyond her years. In the end, Bridget nods her approval, William squirming in her arms with discomfort.

The woman pulls her gloves off and makes quick work of the lock with nimble, gradually paling fingers. She sniffles once and then lets out a victorious gasp as the lock clicks and the door opens. “There,” she says and glances at her wristwatch as though she’s been measuring how long it would take to pick the lock.

“Thank you,” Bridget says and steps over the threshold onto what now feels like a floor on fire. Turning around, she says, “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“It’s Roxy and it was my pleasure,” she says. Roxy clicks her toolbox shut and pulls her gloves back on. The Kingsman logo on the temple of her trademark tortoiseshell glasses glints golden as she turns to leave, disappearing as quickly as she’d appeared.

  
  


**4.**

It seems to Bridget, winter exists solely to complicate her life.

She’s out with William to meet up with her mum at Debenhams, already on her way back and thoroughly exhausted by Grafton Underwood’s latest gossip, when she naturally has to happen upon a rather unfortunate patch of ice on the sidewalk. She goes flying with an undignified yelp, clinging to the pram with one hand and landing badly on the other. William’s distressed cries sink in before the pain, not that Bridget is able to process either properly with the shock rooting her in place. But she has done this a thousand times over - falling in public that is - and she picks herself up on autopilot and maneuvers the two of them under the canopy of the closest shop to inspect the damage.

Of course that is when a dashing stranger in a thousand pound suit decides to swoop in with a tilting smile, a pair of familiar glasses, and a declaration of, “Bridget, I presume. That looked like a bad fall. You should go to the doctor’s. In fact, I’m here to take you,” he says all in one go. “Percival by the way.” He holds out his hand, every bit the knight in shining armour she never thought she’d get.

Her mother hadn’t warned her of these kinds of strangers when she was younger and Bridget thinks maybe that’s for the best. Two hours later she’s sitting in an obscure medical facility that is most definitely  _ not _ part of the NHS, Percival pouring himself a second glass of scotch just as Mark darcy barrels through the door.

“What happened?” he asks, out of breath and eyes darting frantically around the room to settle on his little family of two, “Is William okay?”

“Everything is fine. All I did was slip on the ice and hurt my hand,” Bridget says, still mortified her clumsiness would cause such a commotion. “I really don’t know why everyone’s making such a fuss.”

Mark at least seems reassured, sighing in relief as he brushes a hand through his sleet matted hair.

“Would you like a drink?” Percival asks to his left and Mark flinches.

“Mark, this is Percival. He picked me up,” Bridget says, “Percival, Mark Darcy.”

“Harry’s brother,” Percival says and really it isn’t a mystery when they’re identical twins.

“Yes. That is me. Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks Bridget again. 

She nods, cringing inwardly at how distressed he looks. William isn’t faring much better, cuddled up to her side with tear stained, puffy cheeks. At least Mark takes the offered stiff drink and knocks it back in with a gulp to take the edge off. Percival leaves them alone and Mark collapses in the armchair the other man occupied previously.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” Bridget says. She nuzzles a cheek against the top of William’s head because she doesn’t dare move her injured hand to pet it.

“Either it’s going to keep me vigilant or then I’m going to have a heart attack one of these days,” Mark says and smiles even as he runs a hand across his tired face. “I suppose we’ll have to go home soon, get some dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

“Will and me had some digestives earlier, but I think we’d happily go for some lasagna at Giovanni’s.”

Mark reaches out to brush a few curls from his son’s face. 

“Why don’t you take him?” Bridget suggests and passes William over.  _ Let them calm each other _ , she thinks as she watches Mark sway around the room with William’s hands fisted in the collar of his coat.

When they leave half an hour later, Percival is there to escort them with the pram he’d taken over earlier from Bridget already waiting for them. Bridget glances at Mark. Perhaps it’s best not to ask.

  
  


**5.**

“Do you think one of these days Richard’s going to throw himself down the stairs of the producer’s room because of us?” Miranda asks, laughing.

“I bloody well hope not. He’s only just gotten the wax in his hipster beard right. It’d be a shame to waste.”

“Oh god, I’m tempted to shear him.”

Bridget laughs at that, William stirring in her arms at the burst of noise. He’s always sleepy after a day at the creche and Bridget’s running later today than usual. They’ve had a particularly raunchy broadcast today, a good one in terms of news as well. Now that Hard News is back to, well, hard news, and Bridget has her old job back too, they’re running the studio with the same innuendo infused efficiency they used to. And in honour of that, her and Miranda decided to get donuts after work.

“I don’t know, he looks like less of a pervert now,” Bridget says, “It’s really an upgrade from the worn leather coat and gelled hair I was introduced to.”

“Ugh, true.” Miranda shudders.

They stop at Bridget’s car, the windshield starting to freeze up. “Hold William, will you,” she says and moves him over to dig around in her purse for the car keys.

William makes an unhappy sound at having been jostled, though he’s long passed his shy phase and Miranda has become a familiar face over the last few months. If only Bridget were as familiar with the whereabouts of the keys. She digs through the side pockets and the corner with the hole in the lining, but comes up short.

“Blimey, where the fuck are my keys?”

“You can’t have lost them. We drove here.”

“I know.” Bridget looks around helplessly. “Maybe they’re in the car,” she says and rubs at the glass to clear the pane and peer inside. Her breath fogs up what little she can see  almost instantly, though the keys are unmistakably lying within the car. “Fuck. They’re not even in the ignition.”

“In that case we wouldn’t have a problem. We could just count ourselves lucky it didn’t get nicked.”

“Christ, I don’t know how I manage. It’s gonna take ages to get home. William’s going to be so cranky.”

“What about Mark?”

“He’s in court until seven.”

Bridget sighs. How she even manages to bollocks up the celebrations of her professional successes with her ridiculousness is beyond her. Still, it’s never gotten to her before. She’s still got her Oyster card drifting somewhere in the bottom layer of her purse. She takes William back into her arms, wishing she had brought the pram, because she’s going to put out her back carrying him all afternoon.

She’s halfway through texting Mark she’s going to be late for dinner, when a cab honks a few metres away from them and her and Miranda both startle. Bridget looks up to find Harry Hart rolling down the window.

“Bridget, something the matter?”

“Your fiancé really is prince charming,” Miranda mutters.

“Not Mark,” Bridget says awkwardly, “This is Harry. Mark’s brother.”

Harry gives Miranda a nod in favour of a handshake out the car window. “Twin brother, in case the resemblance isn’t telling enough.”

At that, Miranda turns to Bridget with a not at all subtle look of  _ Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about this before? _

Hoisting William further up on her hip, Bridget says to Harry, “I seem to have locked the car keys in the car. Silly me.” She chuckles self-consciously. Surely Harry is aware of all her mishaps that random people in gorgeous suits have showed up to fix without a plea.

“That’s unfortunate. Why don’t you get in; I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense. I’m going that way for dinner with a client anyway.”

Bridget glances at Miranda and Harry seems to get the hint. “Where are you going? We’ve got plenty of time to make a second pit stop.”

“Any place along the Jubilee line is fine,” she says.

Between Harry and Miranda Bridget has no choice but to take up the offer, so when Harry opens the door for them and Miranda tilts her head expectantly toward the taxi, she clambers in without protest.

“So... are you like available for dates or something?” Miranda asks Harry, glancing pointedly at his unadorned ring finger.

Bridget hisses, “Miranda!” She’s wide eyed, though Harry doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. In fact, he laughs - a deep, reverberating kind that charms effortlessly - then quips something equally blunt and far more suggestive in return.

  
  


**+1.**

She is rather starting to get used to running into one immaculately put together Kingsman or another when her life is fraying at the edges, but Bridget doesn’t exactly expect one to come knocking on the front door on a perfectly decent Tuesday afternoon.

“Hi, I’m Eggsy, friend of Harry’s,” the bloke says.

The introductions are redundant at this point; she’s come to recognise their brand anywhere, though Eggsy is new to the arsenal she’s acquainted with. He wears the same glasses and suit as the others, has the attractive features to smooth over the strangeness of the things he does, but he’s also got a boyish grin and a strangely inelegant posture nailing him to her doorstep.

“This may sound weird,” he says, “but do you mind if I come in for about twenty minutes? I’ve got Merlin on the phone for you to explain the situation.”

Perplexed, Bridget only manages to nod. She moves out of the way to let Eggsy in, suddenly aware of the fact she’s got a kitchen towel in one hand and a giant beetroot stain on the front of her shirt. Tact seems to be lesson number one at Kingsman, because Eggsy pretends not to notice and hands her the phone.

“Bridget?” Merlin says at the other end of the line.

“Speaking,” she says, remembering the oddly formal greeting her mum had told her to use when answering the house phone.

“Sorry ‘bout the hassle. We don’t normally do this, but there’s some very important intel I need to gather and I need you to give Eggsy access to a window upstairs. Can you do that for me?”

Bridget looks at the young man she’s only just met - hands clasped together, eyes roaming the walls of her and Mark’s townhouse like there’s something interesting about cream coloured paper. “Which window?”

“Second one from the right.”

“That’s William’s nursery,” she says hesitantly.

“I know and I promise you nothing is going to happen. All we need is an observation point for the next half an hour. Are you okay with that, Bridget?”

She could say no, she knows. She could say no and Eggsy would wish her a nice evening and leave. merlin wouldn’t hold it against her either. Because of that exact degree of respect, she agrees her better judgement. 

“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” Merlin tells her and she can hear the relief in his voice.

It’s evident there was no assumption she could be baited into compliance. They’re daunting as an organisation - the Kingsmen - seemingly everywhere all the time, and now she’s leading one up the stairs of her home into the room her baby is asleep in.

But she recalls Percival folding her pram into the back of a cab without complaint, Roxy making a face at William and him smiling back her. She thinks of the teddy sat on the nursery shelf and the monitor on her nightstand she never thought she’d use but has since looked at hundreds of times to make sure William’s alright during the night. They’re modern day knights, as Merlin put it, and their chivalry has touched her countless times.

For all their ambiguity, she trusts them.

“Here we are,” she says to Eggsy as she opens the door to William’s nursery. His crib lies in the afternoon shade, where he’s fast asleep, bum in the air and GPS tracking pacifier slipping out of his mouth. 

Bridget leans over the rail to caress his head. By the window, Eggsy opens a briefcase and assembles his equipment, some sort of device pointed at the house across the street. She watches him with interest and asks, “Should I take him somewhere else?”

Eggsy glances at William and shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll be real quiet. Don’t worry.”

“And me?”

She doesn’t mean to sound so antsy, but Bridget can’t deny she is loathe to leave William. Eggsy looks between her and the house across the street, then says, “Actually, you could help me. The kitchen’s facin’ the street, ain’t it?”

She regards him curiously. “Yes, it does face that way.”

“If you wanna make a cuppa or get a snack ready for the baby or somethin’, it’d be a good distraction. Movement to catch the eye in case they look, ya know.”

“Oh,” Bridget says, “Right. I’ll do that then.”

She gives William a once over and decides to not to let her fears get to her. This is probably for the good of queen and country and all that. 

The kitchen is still in a state from her attempt at lunch, a half eaten meal sat abandoned on the counter. It’s gone cold in the time it has taken her to feed William and get him to go down for a nap. Bridget puts the rest of it in the fridge and gathers dishes from all around the room. One of William’s rags lies on the windowsill next to a tea mug and she glances at the house across the street as she picks them up.

It doesn’t seem out of the ordinary in any way. There’s a man moving through a room she’s always presumed to be an office, but nothing else. Bridget deposits the mug in the sink and decides to try scrub out the stain on her blouse while she’s at it.

She’s just about managed to make it damp and spread the colour out at the edges when the baby monitor on the counter sounds with William’s discontented waking sounds, a confused humming until he realises something is amiss and he decides to start crying at the notion of a stranger sat birdwatching by his crib filtering through to his consciousness.

Bridget can hear the sound down the stairs straight from the hall as she hurries up two steps at a time and nearly trips on herself on the way. Out of breath, she stops in the doorway, surprised to see her son in Eggsy’s arm, face red from screaming at full volume, though he’s stopped crying now with the last of his crocodile tears tumbling down his blotchy cheeks. He hiccups, sobs fading fast, and Eggsy shushes him gently, bouncing him expertly on his hip.

Spotting Bridget, he looks sheepish. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but he was upset,” Eggsy says and she realises she must look terrified standing there.

It’s half mortification, half genuine fear, because that’s a spy and god knows what else - sniper, professional thief, martial arts expert? - holding  _ her baby _ . But he’s doing a rather good job of it and William seems content, staring up at this new stranger with a dashing smile and funny voice with a puzzlement reserved only for the rarest occasions.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Bridget says and forces herself to relax.  _ Will is fine _ , she tells herself.

“Yeah, well, I have a baby sister, so I’ve picked up a thing or two. She’s a bit older than him by now though, going on four.”

William, enthralled by Eggsy’s voice, reaches out a hand to put on his mouth, clearly trying to touch the sound. Eggsy only laughs at him, which has Will grinning back. A new kind of sound that, even funnier. He turns to show his mother this discovery and Bridget can’t help but drown in how much she loves him.

By the window, Eggsy’s setup gives off a beep, demanding attention. He passes the baby over to Bridget and fumbles with the device for a moment before he says, “That’s me done then.”

“I hope Will didn’t interfere with your work.”

“Nah, no audio this time. Otherwise we might’ve had a bit of a problem, but today I’m just the cameraman for a silent movie,” he says cheerfully. 

His equipment folds neatly back into the briefcase he had with him and Bridget marvels at how a nursery can transform into a recording site for god knows what sort of incriminating footage and back again in less than half an hour. Leaving her house, Eggsy will look just like any other suited man on the street dashing off to an important mid-afternoon office meeting.

“Thank you for your time and hospitality,” he says.

“No problem. I hope it was helpful in some way.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know and it’d be classified information anyway.” Eggsy offers her one of his brilliant smiles, all white teeth and glittering eyes, as he says it and Bridget thinks the Kingsmen must all find enjoyment in flitting between the real world and their mysterious dealings.

They’re knights in their own right, swooping in out of nowhere to rescue a damsel in distress, although they don’t do metal armour and white horses. No, they’re dressed in the clean lines of bespoke suits, appearing and disappearing in the belly of a black cab, perfectly in tune with the beating business heart of London.

William rests his head on his mother’s shoulder as they wave goodbye to Eggsy on the porch, and he offers a last smile at the pair of them before he climbs into a company cab.  _ What strange people _ , Bridget thinks, though she knows she couldn’t wish for a safer lot to surround her son. He is loved, with surveillance systems and lockpicks and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. You can find me on tumblr at obfuscatress.tumblr.com or on twitter @shippress :)


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